


Scraps!

by nickahontas



Series: And Now Their Watch Begins [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 14:31:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18284192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickahontas/pseuds/nickahontas
Summary: These are scenes that never made it into my fic, 'And Now Their Watch Begins' if anyone's curious.





	1. fighting

When the sword was knocked out of her hand for the hundredth time, Sigorn made his way over. Sansa groaned. It was never the time for male bravado, but this was the worst of times. 

“I keep telling you to use an axe,” he said in his strange accent. 

She straightened into a defensive stance. “And I keep telling you no.”

Oberyn lowered his sword. “An axe? What good will that do? It cannot slice through armor.”

“Most of the dead don’t wear armor. You fight to disable unless you got dragon glass or dragon steel.”

“In that case....”

“No.”

Siggy huffed. “Why not?”

“I said no.”

“And I’m no kneeler.”

She slammed the point of her shitty sword in the dirt, rounding on her friend. “That’s got nothing to do with it!”

“That’s a lie. You don’t like hearing no. How many times has someone told you no?” 

Fear rumbled in her stomach. She ignored it and ripped her right sleeve up to her elbow. “I don’t know. Ask the man who gave me this.

 

I liked the dialogue, but it was super OOC and didn't fit into the story.


	2. A secret stairwell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A scene with siggy and oberyn in a hidden stairwell.

“Not in this city. If you-“

He scoffed and threw his hands up in exasperation. “As if you do not know I am leaving with you. I have been manipulated by a.... How old are you?”

“That depends,” she said with a smile. 

“Of course it does. Bleeding hells!” He threw himself against the wall. Everything about him was exaggerated: his looks, his intelligence, his mannerisms. Black eyes darted from Sansa to her friend and back. Slowly, as if he were a cat stalking prey, he leaned off the wall and stepped to them. 

“Where are you going?” He asked in a different tone. No less angry, but darker, huskier. “I could accompany you. There are many more things I could teach-“

“I’m giving him a tour of the castle,” she interrupted. Her skin felt as if it were on fire. She borrowed a shirt from Robb and leggings from Val. They were too short, but tucked into the boots and no one was none the wiser. It was probably the least skin she’d had on display since arriving, yet she’d never felt more naked than now. 

“I lived here for some time. I can show you several places-“

“The dragon skulls!” She blurted. Both men blinked at her. “Do you know where the dragon skulls are stored?”

“That depends. How did I die?”

She was so shocked that a sharp inhale of breath escaped. How did he jump from being so seductive to a harbinger of death in the blink of an eye? She bit the inside of her cheek as she considered the consequences. 

“The Mountain,” she whispered. 

His hands balled into fists, his jaw clenched again, but he did not move. Sansa waited patiently in their sunny staircase, cataloguing all of his tells, all of his mannerisms. Eventually, he unfurled his hands. 

“Ellaria? My daughters?”

“Cersei.”

He nodded shortly. “Meet me in the eastern courtyard in two hours. I’ll take you to see your dragon skulls.”

“How did I die?” Sigorn asked, his bare arms crossed over his vest. 

The prince halted in his departure. 

“Battle, probably. I didn’t know you very well. Either of you.”

“What did you know, then?”

Sansa sighed. Arya and Robb were going to kill her. 

“I know you married Alys to form an alliance, but this was near the end. It was too late by then. We were damned.”

His expression was unreadable. These men were as different as fire and ice. Slowly, as not to startle her, he picked up a lock of hair that had escaped from her braid. He twirled it, watching the sunlight play on the color. 

“That’s too bad,” he drawled. 

Sansa glanced fearfully over his shoulder. Oberyn Martell simply smirked, bowed, and walked away. Sigorn never looked away from her. 

“Do you want him?”

“Yes,” she said honestly. She cocked her head to the side. “Do you?”

He dropped her hair and shook his head. “No.”

“Is it common for men to lie with men north of the wall?”

“Probably more than here. Nobody can fuck in this fucking castle. It’s not natural. When can I fuck you again?”

“Sigorn,” she hissed. “We’ve been over this.”

He scowled. “Your brother fucked that princess last night.”

“WHAT?!”

“Did you not see? They didn’t hide it.”

“No,” she pouted. 

He chuckled, sidling even closer. His scent was overwhelming. His warmth was overpowering. It was confusing. She liked it as much as she feared it. 

“We should go,” she said. 

He ignored her and elected to trace her bottom lip instead. 

“I could make you mad for it,” he warned. 

His thumb made its way between her lips until her mouth opened of its own accord. He tasted like she remembered. 

“There’s still a lot I have to teach you.”

Her back hit the stone wall. His thigh was lodged between her legs, his nose nearly touching hers. Her hips were restless. She needed to move. Being so still was unbearable but she mustn’t move. He couldn’t know the power he held. 

Siggy brought his lips down to her ear.His whispers rose the hair on her arms. 

“When we get home, I’m taking you in the cold light of the day. You’ll call out my name ‘till they know you’re mine and then you’ll ride me and claim me as your own.”

It had been a long time since someone else had power over her body. It was liberating in the wild, but the novelty had worn off now that she was back in the place that held so many of her nightmares. She met his eyes, held his intense gaze.

“I belong to no one,” she said coldly. 

He tsked, but took the hint and stepped away. “You don’t got to submit to me to have me and I don’t got to bow to you to have you. You got to give as much as you take or it’s no fair.” 

He held out his arm as he’d seen Robb do. “Come on, then. Let’s get you in a pretty dress for this dance to make me go more out of my mind.”

Sansa rolled her eyes and let him guide her to their rooms, let him think she was hiding her desire. In fact, she was hiding something else entirely. She did not want him to be hers. She did not want to be his. She wanted to be free once and for all.

———————

A shattering crack echoed through the cavernous hall. Sansa’s heart stuttered. The men were immediately at her side. She found the source first though, and pushed past her allies. 

“Tor!” She scolded. It was Catelyn Stark’s voice that bounced off the sleek walls. “What have you done?!”

The wilding made a show of looking around. “I don’t see nobody else using them.”

“These are the last dragon bones on this side of the world! You can’t just....” she gestured helplessly, “break the teeth off for a souvenir.”

“What’s a soo-van-ear?” He asked. 

“It’s a- that doesn’t matter! You cannot just destroy historical objects like that! Prince Oberyn, help me. Surely you-”

Sigorn frowned at her. Rightfully so, she had to admit. She should not looo to another prince to correct his soldier. He crossed his arms and glared at Tor. It was chilling to see him postured so agressiveky in front of a dragon skull twice his size. It suited him somehow.

“Don’t make me carry the bones of the Spiderslayer north. Or worse yet, have her steal you on accident. You would be a terrible lordling,” Sigorn ordered. 

Tor rolled his eyes. “They're just gatherin’ dust down here and they might do me some good. If dragon steel and dragon glass work, dragon bone might.” 

Comprehension dawned. 

“Oh,” Sansa said. 

“If it don’t, then I’ll have a soov-ear,” he reasoned. 

“Souvenir,” she corrected weakly. He didn’t seem to particularly care what a souvenir was or if how it was pronounced. He was too preoccupied prying out another dragon fang the length of his hand. 

“Interesting, Sansa Stark. Interesting.”

Sansa let herself have a little sigh. 

“What do you find interesting, Your Grace?”

“You exhibited more passion than I thought you capable of.” 

She wasn’t sure how to feel about his observation. Pride, perhaps, that she did her act well. Annoyance that it was dropped. Frustration that she had let her lust wedge it’s way into her life. Anger that he thought her to truly be Tywin Lannister come again. A better player would not let themselves feel such things. Roose Bolton, Tywin Lannister, and Peter Baelish were all cold, unfeeling men. Was it better to win the game or live? Actually live, love and fight and scream and cry and laugh? Perhaps there could be a balance if she did not aim higher than to protect her family and her people. It was all she really wanted anyway. Wasn’t it?

Siggy’s voice cut through her dark thoughts. 

“Then you’re not half as smart as you think you are Prince,” he said.

Sansa clamped down on the emotions rioting in her chest. The Viper had learned enough. He seemed to realize it. He smiled, a sly thing more genuine than she had ever seen on the man. Almost immediately, it was gone and she was left wondering if she had seen past the veneer after all. 

“Now, tell me what sort of epithet ‘Spiderslayer’ is,” the prince ordered. 

There was no amusement, no boast, no light in Sigorn’s eyes. It was a look she’d forgotten, a look she hadn’t seen in this lifetime. It was a look she hoped to never see again. That look put everything into perspective. 

“A hard earned one,” the Thenn finally said. 

Sansa let his northern accent seep into her bones, let the reminder of her people give her strength. It did not work. An image seared itself onto her brain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this SO MANY TIMES. It was too smutty for the work and a had too much and while i liked oberyn in this it just didn't feel right no matter how much I changed it around. So I took it out altogether.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How the Starks would have met the Hound before I remembered he came to Winterfell with Joffrey, lol.

Everyone was very, very drunk. Robert Baratheon’s wedding would predictably go down in history as the most extravagant party seen above Dorne.Robb was off avoiding his namesake and the dire wolves were still in the Kingswood. The Stark sisters stuck very close with one another. Sansa was having a difficult time running from Peter Baelish. He seemed to appear at every turn when Lady or Robb were away. She was tempted to let Arya kill him. 

“It’s the Hound,” Arya hissed. 

Sansa spun to see him chatting with three men from the melee. One of them had a nastiest black eyed she’d seen in either lifetime. As if the gods were watching, the men bid their farewells and stumbled off into the night. Sandor Clegane was left at a table by himself. With one shared look, the sisters snuck around the tables and kegs to sit with their old friend. 

“Hello Clegane,” Sansa said as she slid onto the bench across from him. 

He choked violently on his wine as recognition lit up his scarred face. Arya laughed. And laughed. And laughed. Eventually, she managed a curse and lapsed back into laughter. 

“Ladies,” he rasped. His shock was fading into annoyance. “May I help you?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I’m hoping you’ll scare everyone off since my wolf is forbidden at the dinner table,” Sansa said almost cheerfully.

 

“Are you really as good as they say?” Arya asked in her most annoying tone.

“Yes,” he spat. 

“I don’t think you are,” she said, turning her nose up. “Why wouldn’t you fight in the melee if you were?” 

Sandor Clegane took a long drink of his wine. Sansa didn’t blame him. Her sister was bad enough when she wasn’t trying to drive someone up the wall. 

“How often do men fight?” He asked. 

“All the time,” Arya said with an eye roll. 

“How often do men joust?” 

Arya frowned. “Just at tourneys, I guess.”

He waved his big hand in a ‘there you go’ gesture. 

They were quiet for a while, watching the drunks dance and laugh around them. The silence might have been awkward, but his discomfort was too entertaining.

“You are adorably confused,” Sansa said. 

He blanched. It was, she reflected, probably the most insulting thing he’d ever been told. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep her face straight. 

“Don’t you have lady things to do?” He grumbled. 

“That’s what we’re hiding from, stupid,” Arya said. 

Sansa nodded gravely. “They’re flittering little birds, parroting back whatever the richer ones say.”

Sandor blinked, then threw his head back and roared with laughter. She thought she’d never hear his gruff voice again. Gods, if she was this emotional over the Hound, she couldn’t imagine how bad it would be when Danaerys landed with Rhaegal. 

The three of them fell into a comfortable silence. He even joined in when the girls started playing their old game. They voiced conversations between funny looking people around them. Arya was acting out a somber conversation about farts when they were interrupted. Some little lord dressed in pressed livery frowned from the Hound to Sansa to Arya and to Sansa again. She didn’t bother to hide her sigh. Her beauty was a curse as much as a weapon. 

“Excuse me ladies, are you well?” He asked in a soprano voice. 

“I’m quite well, thank you,” Sansa said. 

“Are you positive, my lady?” He said, his beady eyes never leaving hers. 

“Yes,” she replied curtly. She turned to Arya in clear dismissal. 

“My lady, it’s just-“

The little lord reached out and placed his hand on her arm. Sandor twitched in the corner of her eye. Sansa grit her teeth and turned to face the drunk man fully. She gathered all of the cold wrath she hoarded into her gaze, all of the anger, grief, and pain she’d endured. She hadn’t been this free in a long, long time. She hadn’t dropped the mask since Littlefinger was executed. The little lord flinched. 

“Are you well, my lord?” She asked. 

“I-yes,” he said it as more of a question. 

“Are you positive, my lord?”

His eyes dart around wildly for an escape like mouse before a wolf. 

“My lord it’s just....You seem rather upset.”

He gave a nervous little bow. “Excuse me, my lady.” 

Sansa sighed wistfully as he hurried through the crowd. It could have been fun to play with him a little longer. 

“Who did that to you?” Sandor asked, looking at the scar on her arm. 

“It doesn’t matter. I watched him die,” she said. 

Clegane stared at her for a long while. Eventually, he came to some sort of conclusion and nodded once. 

“So,” Arya chirped, “How do you think you’d like living in Winterfell?”

Sandor Clegane was at a loss for words for the second time that night. He shook his head and muttered something about the ‘fucking Starks’. 

“There you are!” Robb called. “I finally got away from that Martell woman.”

He slumped down next to Sandor. “Nice joust today, Clegane.”

Sandor mumbled something and got to his feet. “I’m out of here before any more Martells come to find you.”

“You never answered my question,” Arya said. 

“You’ve asked a million questions. Which one?”

“How did you like Winterfell?”

“What the fuck is going on, little wolf? You want me to kill your dead men for you?” He asked with a mocking drawl. 

“Eventually,” Sansa said. “It’s just the wildlings for the time being. They’ll respectyou, they’ll listen to you.”

“And how do you know that?”

“They follow strength. No, Clegane, don’t worry, I’m not asking you to lead them. I’m only asking for you to help keep their settlements in line.”

“We’d pay you handsomely,” Robb promised. “And you can leave if you don’t like it. We wouldn’t ask you to do anything that we wouldn’t.”

“What does the honorable Ned Stark say about his babes bringing killers into their home?”

“My father is a killer,” Sansa said softly. “My sister is a killer. My brothers are killers. The world is built by killers.”

Sandor’s face fell into fear. Wide eyed, he stared at Sansa. His mouth faltered, he glanced at the fire, and he left as quickly as his long legs would carry him. . 

“Good work,” Robb said sarcastically. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plus it was super mary sue ish


	4. Val meets the hound!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, I forgot the Hound was in Winterfell.

Now _that_ is a man,” Val said. 

Sansa pulled out of her reverie to see Val eyeing Sandor Clegane with worrying lust. A strange twist pulled at her stomach. He was younger, of course, just a little older than she should have been. He was seated in the back of the gardens with a few knights and sons of lesser lords. The king must have wanted to keep an eye on him. The Mountain had predictably joined Tywin at Casterly Rock. If Gregor Clegane lived through this, Sansa would ask Danaerys to burn him with dragonfire. She didn’t want Lady or Drogon to ingest such a disgusting creature. Though she supposed the direwolf wouldn’t have to swallow…

“Maybe Sansa wants him to steal her away,” Dacey suggested lewdly. 

“Don’t seek him out Val,” Sansa said, turning away from her old protector. “He’d be suspicious. I’ll introduce you if we cross paths. I want to invite him to Winterfell anyway. He and Tormund would be excellent friends in a different life.”


	5. A Unfinished Dornish Holiday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was what happened between the last two chapters from Sansa’s POV, the week or so the northerners spent with the Martells. In the end, I felt it was smoother to just have Oberyn recall the important bits and just have his POV instead of switching over halfway. Also, I love the Manderlys but they would just add even more characters into the mix and idk what to do with them all. Idk how George does it.

The Starks thought it wise to sequester themselves to solitary parts of the keep until the wedding celebrations concluded. If they ever concluded. It must be costing the King a fortune. The Martells joined them in exile. In truth, the Dornish were not nearly as ridiculous as they painted themselves to be. Yes, they were forward and prideful, but not annoyingly so. Everyone had a role to play in the game.

Two days after the disaster of a parlay with the Tyrells and two days before the wedding, both parties lounged about the Martell solar. Most of the guards were off exploring the city and its wonders. Meanwhile, Robb, Domeric, and Ellaria faced off over a deck of cards, Uncle Brynden was in deep conversation with Ser Daemon Sand, and Oberyn quizzed Sansa over a chest of vials.

They had sequestered themselves off in a dark corner of the room, half hidden by silk where none could eavesdrop or peek at his curious inventory. It had began innocently enough. She had complained about missing Lewin’s healing lessons and asked Oberyn for his advice on the subject. The Red Viper immediately left and returned with a stack of books and an alchemy set.

The prince held a glass box of white powder in his elegant hands and his eyes glittered with dark fantasies. It was frightening and comforting at the same time.

“And this is strychnine, named after the Strychnos tree, from which it comes. Yellow nuts are cracked and ground into the powder you see here. It can be inhaled, but digestion is most effective. It prolongs the symptoms.”

His lips pulled into an almost wistful smile.

“The poison affects the brain. The victim will first display signs of mental distress: restlessness, twitching, and the like. Soon, they have difficulty breathing, which amplifies into lockjaw and then frothing at the mouth. Then, my gentle lady, the attacks begin.”

His smile became something more feral than a viper. Something that matched the storms Sansa felt in her chest.

“I have spent many a day imagining Lord Tywin in one of these fits. His green eyes would bulge and protrude, his skin slowly turning blue, the fear and distress as he struggles to breathe.”

Sansa frowned. “That sounds like the Strangler.”

“Ah, you see, the beauty of the strychnine is that it does not constrict the airway; it weakens the muscles of the chest and the functioning of the brain. Therefore, it takes a much longer time for the symptoms to appear and death to occur. When ingested, the process may take over an hour.”

“I see. May I?”

“Do not open it,” he cautioned as he placed the box in her hands. It almost looked like salt. It would have been very easy to slip onto Petyr’s plate.

“It’s a shame that we were not friends sooner, Oberyn. Alas, the man who deserved this most is already dead.”

Oberyn glanced at the dog bite on her forearm.

“Oh, no,” she said with a smile. “It was the man that sold me to him.”

 

 

Oberyn hummed, but did not question her further. He accepted her strange explanations with nothing more than intense contemplation. His brows furrowed and he made all sorts of soft noises when he tried to piece the clues together. It rather reminded her of Tyrion.

His ruminations were interrupted by a knock on the door. The music and laughter came to an abrupt halt. Everyone tensed. A young page stepped into the room, his eyes widening at the dangerous assortment of people before him. A pretty girl with horrid green hair slipped in behind him, curiosity written over her features. A tall man with dark hair and darker clothes followed her.

Sansa did not rush to her uncle as Robb did. His presence frightened her. She took her time in crossing the room, delaying the inevitable cursed words that would fall from his lips.

“What is it? Is all well?” Robb asked when he finally pulled away, his hand still on Benjen’s shoulder. Sansa shooed the page out lest he meant to earn a few coins for information. It was a valuable commodity in the Keep.

“Aye. It was difficult, but we succeeded. We have a wight and with me being a Stark and a sworn-....Where is your sister?” His grey eyes scrutinized every inch of the room.

“Taking care of her list,” Sansa answered. “A wight? How? Is everyone alright?”

He frowned at her. Her breathing stopped. She’d never been close to Uncle Benjen like the boys and Arya were and he’d been too busy to mend ties as of late. She wanted approval from this wild, northern uncle. 

“You’re too thin,” he finally said.

She scoffed, her chest fluttering at his care. “Now is not the time. When can we-“

“Over a hot meal if I have any say. Introduce me so we can get this over with?” He pleaded.

Robb promptly turned to the room at large. His smile was different from those of Oberyn’s and Sansa’s. It radiated love and joy.

“May I introduce my uncle Benjen, First Ranger of the Night’s Watch. He’s the best of us Starks, so treat him well. He’s accompanied by who I assume is the Lady Wylla Manderly.”

The girl‘s blonde brows rose. The dye of her hair cast a green tint on them. Sansa had never seen anything like it.

“You shouldn’t assume, Lord Stark. You know what they say: It makes an ass out of you and me.” Her voice was high and girlish and completely unlike her odd, fierce demeanor.

Robb blinked. Once. Twice. His cheeks reddened. And then, “Are you Wylla Manderly?”

“Who else would I be?” she asked incredulously.

He blinked once again. Sansa glanced at Benjen, who wore the same fond exasperation Jon donned around Tormund Giantsbane.

“Wylla insisted she accompany me when I set sail from White Harbor,“ he explained tiredly. “And I learned long ago not to ignore the whims of strong-willed women.”

Sansa glanced over her shoulder to nod a farewell to Oberyn. She hooked her arm into Wylla’s and guided her through the door, chatting about the other Northern girls in the Capital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, to oberyn’s great disappointment, things never escalated into an orgy for the ages.


	6. Chapter 6

Oberyn twirled his finger around one of Ellaria’s tight curls as he studied his book. He pulled on the strand of hair. She resisted coyly, before giving in with a smile. He planted a soft kiss on her neck. They were both bundled up twice as thick as Sansa, but they could have been naked with the way they were eyeing one another. Sansa watched her guests with a strange, sad tug in her stomach. 

Suddenly aware of their audience, the couple grinned sheepishly.

“Forgive us, Sansa. It is hard to resist her beauty at times,” Oberyn purred in his trilling accent.

“I...it’s quite alright. I’m just curious, I suppose.”

Oberyn cocked a brow. “Curious, Sansa? Careful, or I might not be as honorable a guest as Ned Stark would like.”

Her cheeks burned. She couldn’t tell if he was mocking her or sincere. Probably both. It was no matter. She was a thirty year old woman.She swallowed, took a deep breath in through her nose and spoke evenly.

“I don’t know how it’s supposed to be. The only man that has...touched me was the boy that took me captive.”

Oberyn’s black eyes went hard. “The one that hunted girls?”

“The one I hunted down,” she said in confirmation.

Ellaria regarded her almost lazily, but not with arrogance. “I’m sorry that was your only experience.”

“My friends giggle and gossip about it, but I can’t ever fathom receiving physical pleasure from another,” Sansa admitted.

“Not even a woman?” Ellaria asked softly.

Sansa’s body locked up. It took her several moments to loosen every muscle from her shoulders to her calves. “He had his own lover. Her name was Myranda and she was jealous of what my name could give him.”

“Despicable,” the other woman spat.

Sansa smiled to herself, remembering how bones had crunched under Stranger’s powerful legs.

“Is there someone you are attracted to? Someone you trust? It is not uncommon outside of Dorne for some noble women to lose their maidenhood to a handsome man of their choosing,” Ellaria said.

“It is unfortunately the only true choice they have in their lives,” Oberyn added.

“I wanted to speak to Danaerys about that,” Sansa confessed quietly. “There are many customs the Dornish and Free Folk follow that Westeros should take heed of. If not even implementing those particular customs, at least making it that noble daughters are not shamed or punished if they chose not to marry for their families.”

“That isn’t a bad compromise, but the men would never concede such power,” he said.

“Maybe I’ll start my own queendom. There will be nothing but lemon cakes and men are only allowed in for pleasure,” Sansa said dreamily.

“Careful, Sansa. That’s treason,” Jon said fondly.

Sansa leapt from her chair and rushed to the door. She threw her arms around his neck and squeezed. He lifted her from the ground and kissed her forehead when he put her back down. She examined him worriedly.

“You’re alright then? And your men?”

“Aye. Tormund broke an arm, but he’s alright other than that.”

“Good. He’ll want an excuse to spend time with his girls. Jon...I’d like to introduce you to Prince Oberyn and Ellaria Sand.”

The couple rose to their feet. Ellaria smiled and greeted him with a genuine, “Hello, brother.”

“Pardon?”

“All bastards are brothers and sisters in Dorne.”

“Oh. Well. It’s nice to finally make your acquaintance, but I’m afraid I have too many sisters as it is.”

Sansa slapped his arm in reprimand.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written before Siggy and Val came into the picture.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the first scene I ever wrote of this fic! Originally, Sansa was sent as a diplomat to Danaerys on Robb’s behalf. This is what happened.

Sansa was more startled by Drogon’s size than anything. The last she’d seen of him, his snout was the size of the elegant tent that protected them from the Sun’s harsh rays. Danaerys’ silver hair was longer too. The intricate braid on her shoulder trailed down to her waist. She was even more beautiful than Sansa remembered. The grief of Viserion had yet to burden itself on her shoulders. Perhaps it never would.

Missandei listed the Dragon Queen’s titles in her clear voice. They were dressed alike in long silk gowns. Missandei’s cream dress was held up by two thin straps. Danaerys was the blue of the Dothraki and held around her neck by a collar. It made her purple eyes look almost pink.

Sansa curtsied. The movement ripped Dany’s eyes from Lady to her. She eyed the girl’s long scar, the wolf, Oberyn Martell, the hooded figure, and finally Sansa’s face.

“I am Sansa Stark, the Red Wolf, daughter of Eddard Stark, King of the North and Lord of Winterfell.”

Danaerys’ pale eyebrows rose. “You’re a long way from home. Princess.”

“Yes. I never wanted to leave home again, yet here I stand.” Sansa turned to look at the older man standing to the side. “We are family, Ser Jorah. I think you may be my uncle now.”

He and Danaerys shared a glance. “I was not aware. Many things seem to have changed.”

“That they have. Your niece Dacey is the Warrior Queen of Winterfell. She is well loved, Ser, by her family and her people. She was the one who convinced my brothers and father that I would be safe. My companions were a part of that as well.”

Sansa turned to the side. “May I introduce my direwolf, Lady-“

“Direwolf?!” Jorah blurted.

“Aye, Ser. She’s the smallest of the litter. Lady Shaggydog.”

Danaerys smiled for the first time. It wasn’t kind. “It’s a malicious sort of satisfaction to have the creature of your banner at your side, isn’t it Sansa Stark?”

Sansa let a bloodthirsty grin cover her face. Oberyn mock shuddered. Lady stepped forward, not to the queen, but Rhaegal. Danaerys inhaled sharply, seemingly holding her breath. Sansa wasn’t worried. The two beasts sniffed one another and then studied one another curiously. Suddenly, the small green dragon let out a screech. The direwolf snorted at his manners and walked to stand by Sansa once again.

“I think they like each other,” Dany noted.

Sansa swallowed the retort on her lips and carried on with her introductions. “This is Val of the Free Folk. Your uncle of a sort, Oberyn Martell, and Ser Barristan the Bold.”

Ser Barristan threw back his hood. Jorah cursed with the same reverence that Robb had. The old Kingsguard strode forward with grace and strength. He seemed to hesitate when he gazed down at Danaerys, but he quickly recovered and knelt before her.

“I fought with your brother at the Trident, Your Grace. When he fell, I served King Robert Baratheon. When he died, Prince Oberyn and Lady Stark convinced me to flee the capital with them and serve the true queen. I ask for your mercy, my queen, and the honor to guard you as I did your family for decades.”

It looked like she might cry, but the queen retained her regal composure.

“Rise, Ser Barristan. I would speak with you privately later, but for now I will say that I am honored by your presence.”

“And I yours, Your Grace.”

He gave her a bow and stepped back to stand behind Sansa. She gave him a playful look that he scowled at. She was sad to see him go. Lady sat beside him as though she knew of his impending departure. They watched as Danaerys and Oberyn greeted one another. She treated him with a different softness. He was the last tether she had to any of her family. Until Jon, anyway.

“Lady Val,” Danaerys called kindly.

“I’m no lady, Dragon Queen. The Free Folk have not titles.”

“The Free Folk? I’ve never heard of such a people.”

“You kneelers call us wildlings.”

The queen’s brows furrowed and she glanced at Ser Jorah.

“We lived in the true north, past your ugly wall, until the dead came. Then the Ned let us through the Wall for the winter.”

“The dead?” Dany asked.

At the same time, Jorah half screamed, “Ned Stark let the wildlings through?!”

“The Wall was never meant to keep out the Wildlings,” Sansa interrupted. “It was meant to keep out the White Walkers. The Others. Winter is coming.”

“Madness,” Jorah declared.

“Until two years ago, the sight of a dragon would be called madness, Ser Jorah,” Danaerys said softly. “And now there are three.”

“Five,” Sansa blurted. Lady slipped out of the tent, an Unsullied’s dark eyes following her with suspicion.

“What?” The Queen asked, utterly confused.

“There are five dragons on this side of the world. At least one more by now I’d wager.”

The Smalljon came in with the crate. It screeched. Sansa sighed and fought back an eye roll. Drogon roared, a far more fearful noise, as if demonstrating how a proper beast should act. The big Northman almost threw the crate down.

Danaerys jumped to her feet. She stared, breath bated, as Sansa unlocked the cage. Lil Red hopped out, screeching excitedly at the fresh air. He hopped around, flaring his wings to flap to the three others. Drogon studied the hatchlingwith one eye. Then, in some strange gesture of affection or disdain, probably both with Lil Red, the great black dragon blew a breath of hot air into the younger one’s face. Small flames sparked in the back of his throat. Lil Red went absolutely spastic.

“He never shuts up, I’m afraid,” Sansa said apologetically.

Danaerys jerked to stare at Sansa. She didn’t need to speak to ask the question in her eyes.

“There have always been stories of a dragon in Winterfell’s crypt. Stark children have been goading their brothers and sisters into looking for generations. The castle is built on hot springs. My brother had dreams of going deeper and deeper into the crypts. We thought, with the enemy beyond the wall,that perhaps there was some sort of clue down there. I had the men look and they’d just removed the debris from the collapsed level. At the bottom, we found a shrine. The story of the long night was carved into the walls and there were three clutches of dragon eggs.”

“Three clutches?!”

“Seven eggs altogether. One of them


	8. Chapter 8

For the life of him, Tywin Lannister could not puzzle out where he went wrong. He had dedicated his life to his legacy and all he had to show for it was an Imp of an heir and a dwindling war. At least Joffrey was out there somewhere. Admittedly, it was probably for the best that the boy could not be found. Tommen was infinitely more pliable.

Jaime would be the best option, of course, but with the disastrous way it had all turned out....

Jaime had been the goal in the beginning. History books were written by the victor, after all. Now, with Stannis on the throne and Jaime so publicly mocked, perhaps it would be best to cut losses.

Perhaps Cersei had not been completely erroneous when she accused Tywin of neglecting the women of their family. Perhaps he should forego Tommen and retrieve Myrcella. Marry her off to one of the more ambitious Lannisters.

A life’s work gone in one week.

Tywin frowned at his only remaining child. Ugly little man. Whoremongering little drunkard. Frighteningly clever little whoremongering drunkard.

“How are you finding Harrenhall, Littlefinger?” The dwarf asked.

“I could care less about the castle,” Lord Baelish answered. “I’m more concerned with the lands surrounding it.”

Tywin’s frown deepened. If only he could forget about the blasted castle. It was bleak. Somehow, even after three centuries. It still seemed to smell like ash. The remaining castle was dark and empty. Barren, almost. Even the solar, where fourteen men were dining, seemed empty. No amount of light or Lannister banners could liven the place up.

He swallowed his goblet of wine to distract himself.

“So that will be your price for whatever it is you offer,” he drawled.

Tywin did not particularly like Baelish. He respected the work. He knew what it was to build oneself up more than most. Still, offering the riches of Harrenhall to an upstart nobody smarted.

Baelish smirked, sipping on his own cup. “The knights of the Vale consider themselves to be the best knights in the realm. A large sum for a large good.”

“Do you know how to trade in anything other than flesh?” Kevan muttered, clearing his cough with more wine.

Baelish chuckled. “Clever, Lannister. I hate that I like you all so much. Other than Cersei, that is.”

Tyrion, the little fool, sputtered wine all over the table. Tywin clenched his jaw. His only son could not even hold......

Kevan choked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote Tywin’s death from his POV before I decided that it would be confusing without knowing what happened to Tyrion. So I wrote it all from Tyrion’s POV instead.


End file.
